


Sieglinde of Catarina

by Hatsage7



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: ALSO rhea and logan (who i also love) but it happens off-screen, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Chosen Undead Has A Throat Injury, Chosen Undead/Firekeeper Anastacia except it's so incidental that I don't want to tag it, Indulgent Fight Scenes, i have weapon-grade Feelings about Sieglinde, oh uhhhhh relevant headcanons:, other characters are mentioned in passing but not by name, that's the major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsage7/pseuds/Hatsage7
Summary: "If he goes Hollow, I'll just have to kill him again."Everybody's lost so much already. Where have they gone, and where shall it end? The story of a father seeking glory, a daughter fulfilling her duty, and the Chosen Undead, bearing witness.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Duke's Archives

**Author's Note:**

> i had to abbreviate a lot of stuff with Siegmeyer that happens at the beginning of the game for the sake of this fic being readable, so it takes place during the Chosen Undead's 1st encounter with Sieglinde
> 
> This flows *much* better if you tap Show Whole Work; it's much more fluid than reading one chapter at a time, despite that being the way it was uploaded

The sun shone, birds chirped, the cooling corpse of some horrific monster marred the otherwise pristine beauty of the grass and trees surrounding the chosen undead. The chosen undead as he drank from a flask of cool, clean water. It was as pleasant a day as one could hope to get in Lordran.

The chosen undead wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, careful not to smear blood over his face. He took one last breath of fresh air and then redonned his helmet. This had been a pleasant diversion, but he had to carve his way through the rest of the Duke’s Archives sooner or later, and the lumbering creature in the distance certainly wasn’t going anywhere. He stood up, gave his halberd a few perfunctory swings, and marched dutifully down the green hill.

As he got closer it was plain to see exactly what manner of thing his next foe was: one of the Duke’s crystal golems, a lumbering mass of shimmering rock easily twice his height and who knew how much heavier.

Something about this one was… off, though. For one thing, it was golden, where the Duke’s library, cells, and all the other places and beings therein had been covered in _blue_ crystal. Surely the unique color meant something, like an animal dressed brightly to warn others of its own danger, but it wasn’t obvious to the chosen undead.

He was close enough now to see the way the crystals grit and ground against each other when in motion, and the creature sensed him. It lunged with its right arm, he rolled away from it, the appendage crashing into the ground as he maneuvered around the creature's back.

With the sun shining through it, the chosen undead could now plainly see another alarming quality to the monster: it had captured somebody. Wrapped in a growth of crystal on its back was a knight in armor, a fat silhouette just visible, like a fly trapped in amber.

Well, less like a fly, the undead thought idly as he crippled the golem’s knees with a swing of his halberd, sending it staggering to the ground with a deafening crash. The knight more resembled a boulder, or a lumpy onion, if anything….

Oh. Shit.

He hopped back, allowed the crystal construct to lumber to its feet as he reassessed the situation. His recurring companion, Siegmeyer of Catarina, the _onion_ knight, had clearly been captured by the entity. Perhaps that’s what the golden color indicated? A signifier that this golem was meant to capture victims for its master? At any rate, he would have to defeat the monster without killing his friend.

Which would not be easy. The golem leapt into the air, soaring forward in a mockery of what little he knew about motion and gravity, aiming to crush the chosen undead underneath its sheer bulk. Used to such a move by now, the undead simply rolled forward, through the attack, and ended up once again on the other side of the creature. He held his halberd over his head, bringing it crashing down on what would have been the skull of a more organic foe, avoiding the companion in its hunchback, splintering the crystal with roughness down the middle. He repeated the action, once, twice, until his arms ached and the thing trembling in front of him reared back for another attack.

The undead threw up his weapon, in a hasty attempt to parry, but only succeeded in weakening the golem’s powerful blow. A pillar of yellow crystal crashed into his chest like a hammer into rotten wood, slamming his chest piece against his ribs hard enough to break several of them. No matter, the fight was over, and with minimal injury -- his motions were steady, as he readied and aimed the final blow, then suddenly swiped his weapon through his opponent with all of his might, carving a deep rent through its midsection. This time whatever machinery held it together was finally cut, as the creature collapsed to the ground with a horrible deathcry.

The undead allowed himself a moment to catch his breath -- indulgent, and potentially lethal if there had been any other foes lurking nearby, but necessary for the work to come. He sheathed his halberd and got out his hatchet, setting quickly to work before the remnants of the golem dissipated into so much aether. He cracked and splintered the crystalline cocoon, setting to work in freeing the onion knight. He swung from the elbow, light, careful swings that were somewhat harder to control but far less dangerous to the imprisoned adventurer.

(Upon reflection, he had been freeing many companions from prisons lately. This one had been the most unusual one yet.)

In under a minute, he had liberated part of the helmet and the arm. With a few more careful strokes, the fingers had enough room to twitch and grasp, and were soon breaking free all on their own. 

The chosen undead stepped back and put the hatchet back in his pack, giving Siegmeyer enough space and safety to emerge and refocus without harming either one of them. The knight suddenly bolted up, chest heaving with exertion, and the undead took the opportunity to offer his hand to the other man, who grasped it and pulled with all his strength. His brother-in-arms collapsed on the ground, freed from his kidnapper. His breathing was wrong, though, high-pitched and flawed -- but he wasn’t violent. He still had his mind. He wasn’t hollow!

Again, allowing himself a moment of weakness in his excitement over reuniting with Siegmeyer, he took him in an embrace, clapping him soundly on the back once, and holding him by his shoulders to see what he had to say.

“O-oh!” he said in an unusually high, airy voice -- nothing like his usual booming tones. “Wh-why thank you, stranger, for rescuing me. I am Sieglinde of Catarina.”

Oh, she was -- oh. He could feel his eyebrows fly up on his face, and he fell back onto the grass in shock. In hindsight, it made sense -- the Duke tended to kidnap women for his experiments, after all. Sieglinde (the _OTHER_ knight from Catarina, because of course there wasn’t just _one_ ) continued to talk, still kneeling.

“I don't know how I ended up in that crystal... It wasn't terrible in there, but I could hardly move. I must think of some way to repay you.”

He gestured with both hands for her to stop. It wasn’t necessary to thank him. He would’ve done just the same for anyone else… 

“Oh! Lest I forget -- have you seen my father? You wouldn't miss him. A suit of armour, just like mine?”

Her --

\-- wh--

_FATHER?_

He was glad to already be sitting down, because he _truly_ could not be more shocked if she had just stabbed him.

That… with all due respect... brave, friendly, bumbling oaf had a _daughter?_

Sieglinde rubbed the back of her helmet awkwardly. “Um, sir? Did you hear me clearly? I was asking if you met a man with a suit of armor similar to mine. He would be quite hard to miss if you _had_ seen him.

The undead sat up and nodded his head. Yes, he had seen him. Multiple times, at that, though who knew where he was now.

She immediately perked up. “Thank goodness! I knew he was here somewhere. Well then, now I must find him. Thanks again, truly. Now if he'll just stay put, and keep out of trouble.”

And then she was moving again. She picked herself up, didn’t even bother to dust herself off, and started walking in the direction he had just come from. He gave her a quick wave as she headed off, which she returned freely over her shoulder.

…and the chosen undead was still sitting there.

... _Siegmeyer_ had a _child?_

\-----

Days bled into weeks (or months? Perhaps longer, in that period of time he couldn’t account for, after the Duke killed and imprisoned him), but the chosen undead had finally wrenched the Lord Soul from the Duke’s bloody, wretched chest, taking what little remained of his heart with him.

He buried two friends, in the soil outside of the Archives. He had put them down himself, one gone mad with forbidden knowledge, and the other gone hollow in her despair. It hadn’t been worth it.

But he was back to the closest thing he knew to home -- Firelink Shrine, sacred and warm.

He noticed a figure by the fire, standing at attention. In… onion armor! It was --

No, he had made this mistake before. It was _Sieglinde_. He was sure. Pretty sure.

He made a lot of noise as he made his way towards her, as he always did when he was approaching an ally, scuffing his feet and rattling his armor. He waved at her when she turned around, and was pleased to see that she was also glad to see him (and that she was, in fact, the daughter).

“Oh, hello again! We're both managing quite well, aren't we? But I haven't found my father yet. Have you seen him?”

The chosen undead stopped in his tracks, just a few feet away. He wasn’t sure where Siegmeyer had been off to next. He racked his brain, struggling to recall the exact words from a single conversation from a long, long time ago.

He… he had said… that he was headed below! And they had already spoken in Blighttown! Yes, he would be going deeper, to the witch in Lost Izalith.

He tried to convey this, pointing down with both hands first, gesturing enthusiastically at the ground. He turned and pointed in the vague direction of the path down to Blighttown, to Quelag -- he pressed his wrists together and folded down his thumbs, wiggling all eight fingers in a spider-like fashion. He looked up at her for understanding.

She was silent for a long moment. “O-oh, really! Then I must be off. I'm sorry he's caused you trouble... He has a knack for that. If he'd just stay put…”

...well, it was better than how his voiceless charades were usually understood. He nodded respectfully and then went to rest at the fire, its deep red flame cresting high over his head as he sat down. Like a lover, he embraced its warmth, and his eyes gently came to close as he allowed himself to drift… 

Home again, at last.

As he felt his brain closing all the doors and windows, barring off the senses one by one rather than fading away into true sleep, a stray thought blew in: what was home like for Sieglinde?

And then he felt soft hands and kind whispers reaching up from below, and he was gone.


	2. Firelink Shrine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the people who thought the first chapter was gonna be a little more of an upbeat adventure, haha... hahahahaHAHAHAH
> 
> oh GOD THIS GETS SAD I'M SORRY

Sieglinde was camping down aways from the roaring bonfire up on the cliffside. The undead there were kind but not trustworthy. One had saved her from that crystal monster, but even so, she was human and they were all undead. No sense in taking risks.

Additionally, she had never been given a good answer to the question of whether or not the undead slept. Certainly not as to whether they dreamed. And this close on the heels of her father, she was sure that she would dream… the dream. There was only one, where  _ he _ was involved.

Despite everything, falling asleep in armor had become so easy. One moment, she was alert and awake, and the next she was in darkness, and the dream had started.

_ As so many knights from so many other nations had done, the so-called “onion knights” of Catarina made their pilgrimage to Anor Londo as the undead curse became too widespread to ignore. Some submitted themselves to an undead asylum, which involved contracting the curse and hoping that some prophecy would deliver their salvation. Not an ideal plan, and one that would forever bar them from returning home, but certainly fitting for one last, best adventure. Others preferred to forge their own path through the continent to the fabled home of the gods. For men such as these, a nightmarish curse ruining the world was simply another excuse to go journeying. _

_ And damn what they left behind. _

_ Tonight, it was a faithful reproduction of what had actually happened, all those years ago in the homeland, which was a small mercy. There would be none of the monsters she had seen in her travels playing the parts of her family, or herself. Not even that golem that had captured her for that awful stretch of time, which she had been anticipating for some days: that would have been a  _ thrilling _ new spin. _

_ In any case, the dream had Sieglinde back at home, arguing with her father as he finished latching the buckles on his greaves. Her mother was sitting in the kitchen, silent and passive as always. She knew what kind of man she married. She was resigned. Sieglinde was not. _

_ She was screaming at her father, furiously running her throat raw. “You can’t leave! You’re not strong enough!” _

_ Siegmeyer just shook his head, an amused note in his voice as he spoke. Didn’t even have the decency to sigh, or be furious, just  _ amused _. Treating her like a child. “I have enough strength to swing my sword and put one foot in front of the other; no knight could ask for more.” _

_ “But you’re not a  _ real _ knight, da! You’re just an old man --” _

_ “Who served faithfully for many years in the army of Catarina --” _

_ “-- an  _ old man _ who would rather run off and die than stay with his family!” _

_ She was trying to provoke him into an argument, desperate for anything that would keep him home for even a second longer. _

_ But he just laughed that same boisterous laugh. Her father stood, turned, and walked out the door.  _

_ In blind, unthinking rage, she grabbed her dull and dinted training sword that hung by the door. Powerful strides had her out the door in a heartbeat. She let out a cry and swung her weapon, casting it overhead in the Cut of Wrath.  _

_ (Always she had thought that was perfectly named. Mindless strength, no art, no spacing, just slamming a sword into your foe.  _ Through _ your foe.) _

_ Her father was just barely fast enough to react to the sound and deflect her blow, driving it into the dirt and springing back to take up his shield on his off-hand. “Lin! What are --” _

_ “You’re  _ not _ undead! You’re not good enough! You  _ can’t  _ \--” She swung her sword again, he parried, she disengaged, her moulinette stopped his riposte, and he closed the distance, his crossguard hooked firmly across her blade. “ -- beat me! How can you beat anyone else!?” _

_ He kicked her, hard, and his armored foot sent her flying backwards. She slammed into the wall, bruising her unarmored body. Pity from her father as he said, “Please, Lin. I mean to leave, and you cannot stop me.” _

_ She coughed, struggling desperately just to breathe and stand on her feet. “The-then you’ll h-have to do better than that.” _

_ Again, she moved forward, feinting with another Cut of Wrath, but dropping the point at the last second to disarm his sword when he blocked overhead with his shield -- _

_ But he  _ parried _ overhead with his  _ sword. _ His shield was low and on the wrong side to block her. _

_ There was a horrible crunch, and before she knew what she had done, her sword had been driven all the way to the grip. The blade ran straight through the armor with the tip poking out the back. _

_ “Oh,” was all her father said, and then he dropped to the ground like so much dead weight and pulled her sword down with him. _

_ There was a wretched noise from the house, and faster than Sieglinde had ever seen her move, her mother had run out of the house and collapsed next to her dying husband. _

_ She stuttered. “I… I d-didn’t mean --” _

_ “Shh, sh sh sh. No more, Lin. It’s okay.” Her father’s voice was so soft, weak. It was unlike him. He laughed, but it was shallow and short. “I-I suppose I need to choose my final words, now, eh? Mmm, mmmm, wh-what do…? Aha! “Wh-when I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again... i-it needs must wither.”” _

_ Her mother wept loudly, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “What… what does that mean, da?” Sieglinde somehow found the courage to ask. _

_ “It means it’s not your fault, Lin. Y-you were… right. I would have… fallen, sooner or later… b-better for you to do it, r-right?” _

_ “D-dad, I --” _

_ “My love,” he said, turning to her mother, too weak now to grip her hand, “promise me… b-bury me where we first met. Not in Catarina… p-please.” _

_ Her mother nodded, tears still flowing freely. He pressed his forehead to hers, then laughed one last time, the blood finally bubbling up his throat and filling his mouth -- and then he was gone. Dead, by her hand. _

_ The days went faster, at that point, and were remembered in less vivid detail. She was tried, and given a light sentence, a judge ruling self-defence against a better armored and better trained opponent, even if the patricide was nigh-unforgivable. Someone needed to look after her mother, after all.  _

_ They made her pay a hefty fine, but the money saved from her father's army pension paid for it easily enough, and even helped pay for the funeral. (They met in Astora, and he was buried beneath a tree close to the border.)  _

_ Sieglinde took her father's arms and armor, and earned money as a mercenary, escorting desperate merchants and forlorn clerics on their way to the land of the gods. No undead passed through their lands, and Sieglinde did her fair share in making sure it stayed that way. _

_ She didn’t speak to her mother very much. Not that there was the opportunity, a deliberate choice by Sieglinde, but she still didn’t speak to her much. _

_ Until one day, when she saw that her father’s grave had been defaced, and the body was no longer there. _

_ She came home to her mother, and once again she had to watch a parent die by her hands, as the news struck her lethally as any blow. In her final moments, she seized Sieglinde by the collar, and begged her, if she had  _ ever _ loved either of them, to give Siegmeyer  _ her _ final words. And then she died. _

_ Sieglinde burned the body. She would not have her mother come back, too. _

_ Her father, somehow, without being seen, had stolen into the nation, into the house, and taken back his arms and armor (if anyone could do such a thing, it would have been him). So Sieglinde sold the house to a family who needed it for far less than it was worth (even with the scorch marks having ruined the yard in back) and bought a newer set of armor that fit more properly.  _

_ Still onion armor, of course. She couldn’t afford a horse, but the armor was enough. She set out for the land of the gods, literally following in her father’s footsteps. _

And then she woke up.

Sieglinde took off her helmet to scrub the tears from her face. The dream never ended with any of the  _ good _ things she had seen, never with the kind strangers or the gorgeous vistas, but with death and the start of her terrible, terrible odyssey. She didn’t even get to relive the adventures she had with her father -- or, parallel to him, she supposed would be more accurate.

Now she was here, at the end of the road. Anor Londo was the final destination for all undead, in one way or another. Finally, after years of pursuing him, she could deliver her mother's last words to him. And she could finally apologize for killing him.

It had occurred to her that even her father's incredible drive might have been dampened, with the end of his journey close as it was. She prayed he wouldn't be Hollow. She prayed that she wouldn't have to kill him again.

She would see when she met him tomorrow, she supposed.


	3. Blighttown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegmeyer POV, after the Chosen Undead "saves" him in Izalith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's over, it's done, wheeeeh, still not crazy a/b the end of the chapter? but i've pushed this back for two days now, and I've been told that learning how to finish a project is important so -- it's finished! the final two chapters will be published daily.
> 
> thank you for sticking with me. this is the beginning of the end. I hope y'all enjoy.

Siegmeyer trudged out of Quelag’s Domain, returning from his humiliating expedition into Izalith. He was beaten, as badly as he had ever been. Oh, he was still well enough to go on adventuring, but… what was the point? Given an hour, that other undead fellow, who had once again saved him from otherwise certain death, would probably kill the witch with or without his help. Why fight? The last thing he wanted to do was to feel the sun on his face, and then die, for the last time.

So he trudged. Through the sludge. Towards the… kludges with the clubs in Blighttown? Ah, a quick rhyme. Perhaps his future had been in  _ poetry _ all along, haha!

...no. No, he thought not. He carved his way through the mindless foes in his path and reflected on his uselessness when it came to challenges that actually mattered. Siegmeyer considered himself a fine warrior, and though he had been halted more than once since coming to Anor Londo (and killed many more times than that), he had never given up. He was a knight, after all -- but he just… wasn't good enough. It seemed as though his purpose was no longer to succeed in glorious battle, but merely to get in the way of  _ true _ heroes.

And now he was once again wading waist-deep through… well, Blighttown’s appellative feature. He consumed a hunk of rancid purple moss to purge the poison from his system (which had been bestowed upon him by that same unstoppable undead -- another painful reminder of his failure). He considered the rickety wooden scaffolding spiraling towards the surface carefully, and if it was even possible for him to make it all the way back up, through the frenzied cannibal savages that…

...that had considerably thinned out, where the hell were they?

He scanned the levels one by one and saw that most if not all of the lower levels were completely emptied. There was some enormous commotion occurring about halfway up, the denizens of Blighttown swarming like angry ants on some apparently fierce intruder.

Someone in need of aid! In need of  _ his _ aid!

He ran as quickly as he could through Blightown’s vertical labyrinth, and in short enough order, he was at the heels of the horde of Hollows. They were unfocused, and ripe for the reaping.

He unsheathed his Zweihander -- meticulously oiled and sharpened -- and began the lengthy but gratifying process of running through the infested ghouls that populated so much of the area. The first three didn’t notice him at all, and fell easily. The fourth heard him, but began turning around only too late, and was run through. By the time he drew his sword out of the creature’s back, his next two sparring partners were alert and ready, keeping a wary distance out of the reach of his greatsword.

For a split second, he allowed himself a glance at the other warrior at the center of the enemies. His sword was still flashing overhead, and it seemed like he was doing a remarkably good job of crowd control and giving ground to stay alive; still, the warrior couldn’t keep his efforts up forever. 

Mistaking his assessment for distraction, one of the ghouls lunged at his stomach with its spear. It was fast; he was faster. His sword whipped around and parried the spear into the other monster’s side and stalled its own attack. He thrust the tip of his sword through the first attacker’s throat and slashed at the second with the false edge. One adversary dispatched, the other knocked to the ground with a serious wound; and then three more turned and made their way over to him.

He quickly drove his sword into the chest of the monster on the floor to properly finish it off, then rolled backward as two spearheads lunged at the space where he had been a scant few heartbeats ago. 

"Hahaha! You'll have to do far better than that, my friends!" He swung his sword inelegantly, forcing his many opponents to back off or risk being cut to ribbons.

“You have made a grave mistake! For you have attacked an innocent traveler on a day when I’m  _ especially _ in a fighting mood.  _ Have at thee! _ ”

The cannibals failed to react -- the three of them just stood there, shuffling apprehensively -- so Siegmeyer lopped off one of their heads, bellowing ferociously as he did so. 

The remaining two foes made noises of alarm, and one of them let loose with a flurry of jabs. Siegmeyer was caught off guard and merely blocked the blows instead of parrying them. 

They forced him back too quickly for him to fight back. His footing was practiced and sure; he couldn’t possibly stumble. He was still ashamed to say that he couldn’t quite press a counter-attack, and he was fast running out of stamina. He had perhaps a few more swings of his mighty sword left in him before one of his foes got a lucky hit in, and then --

The gleaming tip of another Zweihander punched through the ribcage of the ghoul on the left with a wet, meaty crunch. With the last of his strength, Siegmeyer brought his own sword whipping around and decapitated the final cannibal with an effortless swing. Its head hit the wooden planks as did Siegmeyer’s sword, while he took a few moments to huff and puff and get his second wind.

His fellow knight staggered as well, catching his attention. For a flicker, it had seemed as though his countryman might fall on his knees or, Gwyn forbid, turn out to have been Hollow all along. Instead, he picked himself upright, scanning for any other enemies.

Siegmeyer waved his hand dismissively as he forced himself upright. “Never fear, my friend; that was the last of them. The rest are either… phew, stuck in the muck, or on a separate part of the scaffolding. Unable or unwilling to pursue.” He chuckled, which turned into a loud but singular cough. “Are you unharmed? The nasty little buggers love to smear all manner of vile poison on their weapons.”

The other knight merely shook his head. “Well then, allow me to commend you on your remarkable swordplay! It’s no small thing to emerge unscathed from a fight with…” He glanced at the field of corpses strewn out, most of which had begun dissipating already. “...with at least a score of enemies! And I could hardly manage nine of them… ah…” He tried to quiet those feelings of inadequacy and uselessness. “Forgive me. I congratulate you again. Ah, but perhaps we could get out of here together? Unless you have pressing business down below?”

The knight was silent for a long moment, then answered with a shake of his head.

Siegmeyer took a moment to reconsider the knight in front of him. He -- they -- was wearing old armor; it wasn’t as old as Siegmeyer’s and was both more clean and less dented than any knight’s armor had a right to be. The sword was much the same, though perhaps calling anything about the knight “clean” when they were covered in blood was a stretch. Whoever they were, they weren’t speaking -- which was perhaps a little unusual, as only one other undead Siegmeyer had met had been mute, and even that was voluntary… perhaps it was a pledge that skilled warriors all made at some point. He smiled under his helmet at the idea. No, he didn’t think that the skilled knight was unable or unwilling to speak, they just didn’t want to speak to  _ him _ specifically.

“Well, in that case,” he said, putting aside his whirling thoughts, “Siegmeyer of Catarina at your service. No need to introduce yourself, as your sword has surely shown me as much as I need to know already, haha! What say we get out of this forsaken pit?”

The knight nodded, and the two of them started the arduous process of navigating out of Blighttown’s many, many levels.

\----------

Siegmeyer stretched his arms out, exposing himself to the light of the sun as if to cleanse himself and his armor of the impurities both had gathered in Blighttown.

He spoke to his companion without facing them. “Tis a glorious thing to embrace the light after so long in the dark, is it not?”

The other knight only shrugged in response. When Siegmeyer spoke again it was with a much gentler voice. “I must confess, I am somewhat disappointed by the lack of conversation. I was hoping that my reunion with my daughter would be at least a bit more cheerful than this…”

His companion whirled around to face him, plainly surprised, and when she spoke it confirmed his suspicions about her identity. “How did you know?”

He laughed boisterously so that his voice might not break with the weight of his emotions. “There's not a better fighter in the world, my little Linde.”

She made a noise partway between a scoff and a chuckle. “Not so little anymore, da.”

“Pah! You may be as tall as your old man, but my belly's still larger than yours; therefore: “little” Lin you shall remain.”

That got a genuine laugh out of her, deep and throaty, if cut short too quickly. “I missed you, da.”

And at that moment Siegmeyer wanted nothing more than to hug his very grown daughter and never let her go.

He settled for saying, “It's good to see you too, Linde. I'd be interested in hearing what journeys have brought you here, but we should, ah… probably get out of this valley first.”

She nodded and laid her sword on her shoulder to carry it more casually. “Indeed. The bonfire up there is close enough. No more than five minutes or so. Our reunion can wait for that long, I feel.”

“Of course, of course.” They walked up the winding cliff paths for a few moments… but Siegmeyer couldn’t deny the worry that was eating away at him for long. “Err… I don’t wish to pry, Lin, but if you can spare a moment for a foolish old man… why are you here? Don’t tell me you… that is, you aren’t also…” 

She gasped once she understood what he couldn’t bring himself to ask. “Oh, da, no! I’m still human, through and through.”

Siegmeyer felt a storm of conflicting emotions bubble up in his chest, foremost among them pride and relief. He placed a hand over his heart and gave thanks to whatever had protected his daughter on her journey. “That’s certainly a load off my shoulders, haha! Oh, bless your heart, Lin, but I was worried there for a moment.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” she said, some unknowable emotion in her voice. “I mean to go back home after all this is over. Raise a family, guard the border, all that.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Trying to be  _ unlike  _ your old man then? This is all the adventure you need for one lifetime.”

Sieglinde winced. “Ah -- I didn’t mean --”

“No, no, don’t mince words. I was many things, but a role model was not one of them, haha! It’s… good and proper that you intend to go back home. Everyone needs a goal, and yours has been strong enough to carry you this far. You truly are a marvelous girl.”

They were silent for a while. “Besides, I’m sure your mother will be glad to have you back! I can’t imagine it’s been easy for the two of you --”

“Da…” 

“-- to get along in my absence. I’m sure a large family would do her good in her later years, she’s always been a homemaker as I’m sure you know.”

“She’s dead, da.”

“Haha, dead tired, I’m sure! I can’t imagine that you are any easier for her to care for than I was in my… i-in my… soldiering days...”

“...da.”

Siegmeyer stopped in his tracks. “...I’m sorry, Lin, what did you say? I must have misheard you.”

“...she died before I left. She… didn’t take it well, when I told her what happened to your grave.” She gave an angry little huff that might have been meant as a laugh. “Bearer of bad news. The second parent I --”

“Don’t say it,” Siegmeyer spat out, voice as hard as iron. “Don’t even joke about that, Lin.”

“...okay. If you say so, da.”

He had to sit down right then and there. It was a dangerous thing to do, but he couldn’t fight in his sorry state. He was sucking as much air as he could through his helmet, gasping heavily and rapidly. If he had tears to cry with, he would be weeping. He hoped so, at least.

He let out a laugh. He couldn’t help himself; this too came as a relief. He was on the ground slamming his fist into the wall, practically  _ roaring _ with laughter. He was so overwrought with grief, so crushed by the weight of it that he couldn’t  _ help _ but be relieved! He could still  _ feel _ something other than despair and hopelessness, after all this time! Gwyn, but even such terrible news came as a relief.

Sieglinde laid her hand on his shoulder without saying anything. He spent the next several seconds weeping, crying, mourning his wife, before finally getting over himself and turning to his daughter. “I’m so sorry, Lin. I’m -- I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry that you had to carry this terrible, terrible burden all by yourself.”

Sieglinde was silent for a long moment. “Thank you, da. I’m… I’m so glad to see you again.” She threw her arms around him, embracing him tenderly despite the clunky armor. Siegmeyer started crying again, and Sieglinde began to sob quietly as well. “I missed you a lot.”

“I missed you too,” he whispered back to her.

He tried to keep hugging her, but she pulled away, sobering up quickly. “Dammit, I wanted this to wait, but -- dammit. She wanted me to tell you her last words. She was -- she was  _ very _ adamant about it.”

“R-right then. Give me just a moment…” He let out a shaky sigh, preparing himself for yet another emotional blow to take his knees out from under him. “Right. Let’s have it.”

Sieglinde told him. It was a short, simple phrase. Siegmeyer didn’t understand it at all.

She repeated herself when he asked her to. “That’s it precisely. Every word; I wrote it down the day I left home. Tell me what it means, da.”

“...I can’t.”

She clenched her fist. “I came all this way,  _ just _ for this. Give me this  _ one _ thing. Please.”

“I  _ can’t, _ Lin.”

“You -- tell me! I  _ need _ to know this!”

“I can’t! I don’t --” He looked away sharply.

Sieglinde advanced on him. “You  _ can’t?  _ You don’t want to? Da!” She stood over him, shaking with fury. “After  _ everything _ I’ve done, I deserve to know!”

Siegmeyer didn’t say anything.

Sieglinde looked as if she wanted to hit him -- then she suddenly backed off. “Da. What was mum’s name?”

Again, he failed to answer.

“Gwyn’s blood, da,” she said, sinking to her knees. “D’you not remember her name? Can you even remember her face, or why she wanted to bury you in Astora.”

“We met in Astora,” he whispered hoarsely. “I still know that much.”

Sieglinde buried her face in her hands. She was quiet for a long time.

“Lin…” 

“I was so --  _ happy _ , when you figured out it was me. Up to that point you had still seemed like you, but you knew it was me, you  _ knew _ it was -- fuck!” She buried her head between her knees.

Siegmeyer reached out to his daughter. “I’m not Hollow yet.”

She swatted his hand off of her and he could hear the fury in her voice. “No, but you’re close, aren’t you? If you’ve forgotten mum -- it’s not a matter of when, it’s just a matter of what kills you!”

He winced. “You’re making it out to be… much worse than it is, really. I think I’m the expert on such things, haha!”

“Don’t joke! You always do this --” She cut herself off. “Tell me you’re not on the edge. Tell me honestly that you aren’t a breath away from Hollowing. I’ll  _ wait _ .”

“Lin…” He took in a deep breath. The two sat in a tense silence for a while. “It’s not as bad as you think --”

“Damn it all! I knew it, I knew it…” She began pacing restlessly. “That’s just the old family luck, isn’t it? For you to finally Hollow  _ here _ , at the end of it all.” 

Siegmeyer didn’t know what to say. “...I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why -- here, now? Don’t tell me you’re giving up after everything you’ve been through?”

He shrugged. “This land is a funnel for heroes. Much to my chagrin, I am not nearly the bravest, not nearly the strongest, not nearly the smartest, not nearly, not nearly, not nearly… enough.”

Sieglinde scoffed at him. “I doubt that anyone else I’ve met in this land or any other could do what you have done. Who else could have slain the Maimed King in the lands to the west? And who could have figured out the enchantment on his brother, the Invisible Knight, to make him visible and defeat him as well?”

Siegmeyer perked up at that. “How do you know about that? I’ve not spoken of that to anyone.”

She rubbed the back of her helmet, suddenly sheepish. “I… may have contributed, in a small way. You spend enough time there that I was nearly able to catch up. I… diverted the water flow of the river feeding Dolorous Gard’s moat, during your fight, though I was still unable to speak with you before you were on your way again.”

Siegmeyer let out an amused huff. “My own daughter… you must have been following my trail for all these years?”

“Not really,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “I tried to keep up, but… you really are a good adventurer, da. I had to take several detours around places you just smashed right through.”

“Ha! Ah, but that does do me some good…” His pride was buoyed for a moment, before he remembered that Sieglinde had to be far more cautious than he had needed to be, and that despite being human, she had held her own in one of the most formidable and dangerous areas he had ever come across -- one that he had been unprepared for. His daughter had surpassed him, as well as… “Nonetheless, I’ve been stuck and needed… rescuing… more than once in this land. Every time I’ve faltered, this particular fellow effortlessly clears the way for both himself and me. He’s mute, but he might be the greatest warrior I’ve ever seen. He’s going around -- I don’t know, killing insane Lords and heroes and saving the world, I suppose. If you haven’t met him at a bonfire yet, you still might before you go back home.”

Lin had frozen while he was talking. He considered this for a brief moment. “Aha, so you have met someone like that!”

“Er… y-yes. I was kidnapped by a crystal creature when I first arrived here, and I was rescued by a man who certainly fits your description. He seemed almost surprised when he rescued me; I think he thought I was you.”

“Well, Gwyn knows I’ve certainly needed him to save me before.” He felt himself sink into the earth a bit more. Even his daughter needed help from the chosen undead. He truly didn’t need to be here at all. “He’s better than I am, Lin.”

“And that’s worth losing your humanity for?” She said bitterly.

...how could he explain to her? How could he explain that he had given everything up, his wife, his child, his  _ actual _ life, for this one last adventure, and that he still wasn’t good enough? He would be amazed if she understood, and she could never sympathize. She was the one he abandoned, after all. 

“You should take some time for yourself,” he said, ponderously getting to his feet. “This really is a beautiful place. There are sights well worth seeing -- not that you should be taking foolhardy risks, of course!” That got a quiet laugh from her, and his heart warmed for it. “The settlement some ways off that way has a lovely view, and should offer little trouble for a warrior of your expert caliber. There’s even a merchant and a blacksmith if you need more supplies for -- if you need more supplies, o-or repairs.” He swallowed hard; he had nearly touched a sore spot once again.

His daughter took the lull in his words as the end of them. “Will you wait for me? Stay at the bonfire until we can figure out what to do?”

“I’ve still not gotten better at waiting, Lin, all these years later.” He began to walk up to the bonfire again.

“Will you try,” she asked, desperation cracking her voice, “for me, da? Just for this one thing, please?”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I can promise to try. And if I think that I might pose a danger to the others there… 

...I would like to see Ash Lake again.”


	4. Firelink Shrine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chosen Undead POV. The chosen undead speaks with Siegmeyer and Sieglinde in turn. It will be the last time he ever talks to his friend. 
> 
> They don't part on good terms.
> 
> (..."final chapters will be uploaded daily", he says, listen, i'm SORRY, this thing was actively FIGHTING ME the whole way through, i'm FINISHED, enjoy)

The chosen undead stumbled his way back to Firelink Shrine. He had been going back and forth between the Catacombs, the Tomb of the Giants, and Firelink in his efforts to challenge Gravelord Nito. It hadn’t been going… _horribly_ wrong… but it was very slow.

He had been down there before going to the Archives, and before going to Izalith. Skeletons and cockroaches would inherit the world if nobody saved it, he was sure.

He noticed a figure in onion armor sitting by the bonfire, lost in thought.

Was this Siegmeyer? Surely the man hadn’t been in one place after their cooperation in Izalith; his spirit was far too adventuresome for that.

He approached the bonfire in his typical manner: extremely loud and very open. Siegmeyer seemed not to notice him (which was certainly in character, but nevertheless struck him as odd). The undead sat at the bonfire, rested for a while, and _only_ when he finally stood and gently nudged Siegmeyer’s shoulder did the man seem to regard him at all.

“Oh! Hello, friend! My… daughter risked life and limb just to find me. To deliver her mother’s last words… and the poor girl’s not even undead!” He sighed, still proud, but a little sad too. “Heavens. I never asked her to do that.”

The chosen undead was shocked to his core. Once again, Siegmeyer’s family matters _astounded_ him. “Not… undead?”

Siegmeyer perked up at _that_ at least, surprised to hear him speak. “Indeed! Quite brave, my little Lin. Perhaps a little foolish, too. Like her father, I supp--”

He interrupted. “She was -- alive? When you… left?”

“...truly, you must not think the worst of me,” Siegmeyer mumbled as he retreated into himself. His shoulders were hunched as if he were afraid, an impossibly large man having shrunk into something… less.

He took a seat beside the onion knight, because this was one instance where he _needed_ an explanation from his friend, and a damn good one at that.

Siegmeyer tried to rub his chin through his helmet. “You must understand, Catarina is a very different… culture, compared to Lordran. Honor and duty guide us. The undead are seen as a curse. A plague, even, and frankly, being undead myself, I’m not sure I can find it to disagree.” Siegmeyer laughed weakly.

He wasn’t as amused.

Siegmeyer cleared his throat and continued speaking. “Ah -- many knights were naturally driven to go to Lordran, when rumors about the land being the heart of the undead curse became more concrete. After what happened to Balder and the knights of Berenike, though… well, those in power thought it more prudent to _not_ let their military-age men and women die and let the nation fall into darkness.” 

“Knights,” he continued, voice faltering, “were given significant financial incentive to defend the border and escort merchants to discourage them from questing. Undead were not allowed into Catarina at all.”

Ah, so that was it. The chosen undead nodded, having a much better understanding of his friend’s predicament. He was a born and bred hero whose nation both conditioned him to seek glory and who cast him out when he became undead. No wonder he was throwing himself into danger so recklessly.

He reached out and placed a hand on Siegmeyer’s shoulder, trying to project as much sympathy as he could and hoping desperately that it didn’t come across as pity.

The onion knight let out a huff that might have been amused. The other man wrapped a hand around his forearm, thumb rubbing his gauntlet the way he had seen more superstitious men worry at talismans or lucky coins. “Thank you for the understanding. Not everyone would be so… well, my daughter’s been beside herself with guilt and anger.”

He nodded and withdrew his hand after a moment. Siegmeyer spoke again, “I wonder if I might have… done things differently. I thought that, raising Sieglinde, I had done a fair job at teaching her to be a knight. But… looking back… was I nurturing her passions, or just indulging my own?” He leaned forward, huddling around the fire. He rubbed at the front of his helmet anxiously. “My memory has been failing as of late. I can’t -- I can’t trust what I have.”

This was sounding less like the grief and sadness that came from his daughter’s dire news, deep and painful as it should be, and _much_ more like depression from Siegmeyer. The kind of doubt and loss of identity that came before Hollowing (always a fine line with those cursed with undeath). He wasn’t sure what -- if anything -- he could do to help the other man.

He tried, and he would never stop trying, but he wasn’t as good as helping people as he’d like to be.

Siegmeyer mumbled, perhaps speaking under his breath, perhaps just clearing his throat. “She tried to stop me from leaving you know.”  
  


\-- that stopped the chosen undead right in his tracks.

“A good father might have listened more carefully,” Siegmeyer barrelled on, “to his tearful daughter begging him not to leave. A good -- _man_ \-- wouldn’t have left his family while yet they lived and needed him.”

Wait --

The chosen undead’s inner monologue whirled, an upset in his chest taking thorny root. He was too blinded by the revelation that Siegmeyer had been -- alive? surely not -- and had left his wife and _daughter_ before being cursed to notice the man’s obvious self-loathing. The tears hiding under his voice as he continued, “she’s grown up to be better than I ever could. Strong, and independent, like you, where _I_ still have to rely on others to do my work for me, for all my years of experience. All my victories: hollow, in the face of --”

“Family?”

Siegmeyer stopped abruptly, head whipping up at the way he had spat the word out, like blood in his mouth. “Oh -- yes. My wife and my little Lin. They were both alive when I left… or, wh-when I tried to leave, I suppose.” (It was the first time that Siegmeyer had ever faltered that badly in the time he had known him.) “I suppose that… she… died sometime after I left.”

“You _left_ ,” he rasped, “knowing -- you wouldn’t -- see them again.”

He was clanking in his armor now, shivering with rage. He had to wrap his arms around himself to maintain the barest semblance of calm.

“...I… wanted an adventure. I hadn’t thought that I would have been gone for this long, but… w-well, there’s no good way to put it, but you understand, don’t you?” He sounded far more defensive now, like apprehension was properly dawning on him.

“If _I_ h-had… family,” he croaked out, rubbing his throat, “would let th’world die -- f-for their sakes.”

Siegmeyer reared his head back. “You can’t _possibly_ \-- I loved them! Is it so wrong to want an ounce of adventure once in a great while?”

The chosen undead nodded furiously. How could _anybody_ abandon their loved ones so easily? He had thought -- he hadn’t thought that his friend was so -- _callous_ . So full of life, with no care for his _wife and child_ until it was far too late.

“You wouldn't understand. How could you possibly, alone as you are?”

Both men winced. Siegmeyer plainly regretted the words as soon as he said them; that didn’t stop the chosen undead from being furious.

“Get out,” he snarled, the ugly, scarred quality of his voice for once matching how he felt.

“My friend, I --”

He jerked his thumb behind him. “Need to rest, don’t want you here.”

Siegmeyer clasped his hands together. “Please forgive me, I spoke --”

“ _Fuck._ Off. Now.”

The chosen undead had gotten to his feet at some point. His hands were balled into fists, shoulders squared and legs apart as if ready to fight Siegmeyer. If he, if he continued trying to _justify_ his awful, awful fucking decision and his equally cruel words.

The knight must have seen that ugly, angry part of him. “Fine! If that’s what you wish.” He stood up, backing away and circling around the bonfire, keeping it between them. “I can see the likes of me are not welcome in the company of great heroes.”

“Coward! Weak -- heart!” He thrust a judgemental finger at him like a weapon. He reared back and kicked up a clod of dirt, sending it flying into the flames.

“Very well! Then I bid you good day, _friend_. Best of luck saving the world,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

And then Siegmeyer was gone. It was just the chosen undead, and the many prying ears who had no doubt heard the whole thing, cloistered some ways off in the nearby ruins, but certainly still close enough and curious enough to have been listening to their fight.

...their fight.

...dear… Gwyn, had he really just gotten into a fight with _Siegmeyer_ ? About -- well, about him abandoning his family, which -- he was certainly right to call him out for that -- and he had been a real mean bastard about it… but the onion knight had been hurting, raw and vulnerable. He had just spoken to his daughter for the first time in years, and the chosen undead had lashed out at him, had gone to the trouble of speaking -- of _shouting_ \--

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck.

Oh he had… _badly_ messed things up, hadn’t he?

He sunk down into the dirt, still trembling with emotion. He dropped his head into his hands, staring at the ground, immediately overcome with regret. He shouldn’t have said anything. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but he hadn’t needed to hurt Siegmeyer like that. He wouldn’t have hurt him back if he hadn’t spoken, if he had just been a good friend. And now the onion knight had gone off to who knows where. What had he done? What had he done?

(What had he done…?)

\----------

The chosen undead was startled awake by a hand on his shoulder. 

The comfort of Firelink, feeling uniquely like the weight of an old blanket hugging his shoulders, dropped away instantly as the churning froth of fear roared in his head. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, turning around to see -- an onion knight? Was this Siegmeyer, back to apologize…? That didn’t seem likely, after what they had said to each other. It had to be his daughter.

He immediately raised his hands away from his weapons as Siegliende's voice rang out from that familiar armor. “Hello again! I have finally located my father. All of your help was invaluable to us...Thank you so much. I was finally able to pass on my mother's last words.”

He… nodded, unsure of what else to say. He pointed at Sieglinde, then rocked his hand back and forth in a so-so measure.

“Are… are you asking about me?” He nodded, which made her laugh. “Well, that’s -- that’s very good of you. I’m fine, really.”

He cocked his head to the side: disbelieving. He patted the dirt next to him firmly. She hesitated for a moment, but she decided to join him, which was nice.

(Her hand was gripping the knife on her thigh. He didn’t take it personally.)

He… was less than eager to have another conversation after the disaster with Siegmeyer. Still… she had seen fit to thank him. She deserved something from him, if he was capable of giving it. Some closure that her father couldn’t quite muster, perhaps.

He poked her armored foot with his own, spurring her to speak.

She sighed. “It wasn’t what I had expected. No, it -- I had imagined many, many possibilities upon seeing him again. But it was better… and worse… than I had thought. Bittersweet.” She shook her head. “I’m fine. Neither of us were hurt, or hurt each other. Who could ask for more?”

Sieglinde chuckled ruefully, as did he. He tapped his helmet, placed a hand over his heart, gave her a thumbs-up.

She took a moment to process what he was “saying”. “...right. Yes, he wasn’t Hollow. That’s good! That’s a great thing, really! Thanks to Gwyn for just -- being able to have one last talk with him. Most people don’t get even that much, I suppose. They’d give more than I have for that chance, wouldn’t they?” She shifted forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

...he gestured for her to continue. She did so in short order; she was proving to be a more intuitive conversation partner than almost anyone else. “It’s just… yes, he’s still sane, but the day before yesterday, I would have said it was impossible for him, of all people to Hollow. Not that I wasn’t prepared for that, but -- well, you’ve met him, you know what he’s like.” She continued before he had started nodding, well and truly on a roll. “Now that we’ve met, I know it’s only a matter of time before he Hollows. Days? Hours? It’s like a terminal illness. Again, look at me, whining and ungrateful -- I’m sure you’re acutely aware of it already. It hangs over your head, every moment of every day. It’s just…” She looked around for a moment, visibly struggling to find the right words.

“He’s your father,” he said, immediately coughing. His voice was still ragged from his earlier shouting match. Sieglinde whipped her head around to look at him; he regretted saying anything and drank his water as fast as he could manage without choking on it.

After a moment to recompose herself after hearing him speak, she said, “yes, that’s right. He’s my da. He’s… he always seemed so invincible.” She went very quiet for a moment, then scoffed. “Well, I guess _that’s_ not true. He hasn’t been invincible since I --”

She broke off, staring at him dead on, face to face. He didn’t know what she had been about to say. He shrugged, took another swig of unpleasantly warm water.

Sieglinde sighed and turned away from him again. “Nevermind. It is what it is. I know what I have to do for him. If -- when it comes to that. I’ll be ready.”

She let out a shaky breath, and when she spoke again, it was too quiet to be called even a whisper. So small, as if it were just a bad thought that she pushed out as light and unthinking as the air from her lungs.

“If he goes Hollow… I’ll just have to kill him again.”

...silence stretched out between them.

_Kill him_ again, she had said (he had _thought_ she _might_ have said). What comfort could he possibly offer to something like that?

“...shit.”

She barked, a harsh, ugly peal of laughter, abruptly cut off. “Yes. Quite.” 

They sat there for a while longer, watching the fire crackle and glow. Sieglinde stood up, offering only a curt wave by way of saying goodbye and received an equally jerky bow of the head in return.

He hoped that this would be the last they saw each other. She had been through enough. She deserved to get home without any more grief haunting her.


	5. Ash Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To paraphrase one of my favorite lines: this story happened a long time ago in a place far away from here. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it.
> 
> This was always going to happen. This is how the story ends.
> 
> TW MURDER & DEAD BODY  
> -Siegmeyer dies, surprise, but also i describe his body and it's p gross maybe skip from "he would have spared her that if he could have. Another failure" to "She did manage to get the ring off" if decay and rot is squicky and bad for you; no judgement go w God n all that

Ash Lake… was peaceful.

It was not the peace of the dead, like what Siegliende had heard of New Londo or Anor Londo, where there was simply no one still living to break the silence. Nor was it the quiet of the areas that _were_ actually populated, settlements and burgs filled to the brim with Hollows or those close enough to Hollowing, where the dangers simply lay in wait to close their jaws around the souls unlucky or desperate enough to be caught in their traps.

Ash Lake… was just peaceful. An endless beach, hidden below the rest of creation. There were monsters, sure enough, but even they were more akin to features of the environment than actual enemies. It was a little funny, in a way; if not for those monsters, she might not have known how to get down here, and she certainly wouldn’t be looking for it in the first place if it wasn’t for, well… the apocalypse.

It was a beachfront view at the end of the world.

Sieglinde sighed. She looked out from her position by the Great Hollow, the passageway leading down into this incredible place. The height of the massive root gave her an excellent view of the entire area. Sandy beaches stretching nearly as far as the endless pillars of trees, a deep black pool that once might have been a nest for a giant monster… and a bonfire almost directly below her.

A bonfire with an onion knight going in circles around it.

She drew in a shaky breath. This had always been a possibility. She had known it since starting her journey. She had known it since she had spoken with him for the first time in years.

That didn’t make what she had to do any less painful.

She walked down the gargantuan root and doubled back across the beach quickly; she wasn’t quite running, but she just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

She approached the bonfire. The Hollow -- her father still hadn’t noticed her yet, despite being fewer than 30 paces away.

She swallowed to clear the lump in her throat. “Hello again, da.”

The onion knight swiveled its head slowly around to face her. Its body soon followed, picking the tip of its sword out of the sand and assuming a proper fighting stance. It -- growled at her, like an animal getting ready to fight.

Sieglinde dropped to one knee, holding her Zweihander with two hands in front of her face. She could see her armor reflected in the pristine blade.

“Gwyn, the Lord of Light and Father of mercies,” she said, as the Hollow began to shamble its way towards her, muscle memory making what would have been lumbering steps into more controlled strides, “through the strength of his arm and will has reconciled the world to himself and given us the power to beg the forgiveness of sins.”

The undead was closing in and she was nearly within reach of his sword. She had killed her father once before, though, and she _would_ rather die than do so again without asking forgiveness of his soul (and hers). “Through the ministry of the church. May Gwyn give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the --” she stumbled here, dry tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth. “Of the Father, and of the Daughter, and of the Darksun. Amen.”

She rolled backwards just as flashing steel sliced through the air, slamming into the ground and kicking up a spray of sand. She lunged forward, driving her sword up and out, hoping to skewer the Hollow and end the fight before it began.

No such luck; the undead slammed his crossguard into her blade. The impact jarred her arm up to her shoulder, and she stepped backwards. That was an unsporting move; a poor way to block an attack and a good way to ruin a sword. It wasn’t something her father ever would have done.

He was gone now, if there was still any doubt. There was no need to hold back now.

\----------

The Chosen Undead had taken a uniquely direct route back down to Ash Lake. He had warped to the bonfire on the shore where the Everlasting Dragon rested, not the one that led to the Great Hollow. His views had been… changing, steadily, as he had pursued the Lord Souls. The dragon, old as it was, had offered him a needed perspective on the world (even if it offered its perspective less by talking and more by… being). 

However, he had been immediately distracted by the sounds of weapons clashing against each other from somewhere along the shore. Enemies fighting each other wasn’t such a common occurrence that he felt he could safely ignore it -- and certainly not in Ash Lake, he realized, where none of the enemies were close enough to each other to clash, or had weapons to clash _with_.

All he could tell was that there was a fight happening some distance away. He couldn’t make out anything from where the other bonfire was, safe for the bright glow of the flames, so he wasn’t sure that it was strictly speaking safe for him to teleport to directly.

He sighed. There were two or three Man-Eater Shells between him and the bonfire. He hefted his halberd off his back, and realized that he had better get to work clearing the way as quickly as possible.

Something told him that he needed to get there before a victor was decided.

\----------

Sieglinde was nearly too late to block the undead’s sword from crashing down on her skull -- a hair’s difference and she might have died. She slammed her heel into her opponent’s knee, pushed the length of his Zweihander away from her with a shove, and hopped back to catch her breath.

He -- it -- the undead that used to be her father gripped its sword tightly and lunged forward -- only to stumble as a loud crack filled the air, like a branch snapping off a tree. The undead knelt in the sand, forced to use his weapon as a crutch to keep from toppling over. Both of them regarded the leg she had kicked, twisted at an unnatural angle and likely broken. Blood did not drip or pour from the joint at the knee so much as _ooze_ ; congealed blood, thick and black as pudding, slowly began to discolor the sand.

Sieglinde took in a breath and stepped forward -- 

The undead lunged at her, only temporarily slowed by its crippling, swiping its sword into the inside of her thigh. The blade crunched into her armor and for a moment she thought, _that was it, this is how I finally die_ , before getting stuck. Her leg hadn’t quite been chopped off; the sword had maybe just broken the skin before her armor stopped it.

“Haa!” She let out a cry and swung her own Zweihander as fiercely as she could into the side of that big, bulbous helmet. The sword glanced off, not quite slashing through the curved metal, but the force of it jolted the undead, throwing it and its sword away from her and into the sand. 

Sieglinde winced, the pain in her leg coming into clearer focus as she tried to move towards the now prone knight. She touched her fingers to the wound for a moment, then pulled away to find them smeared bright red with blood.

Well, she wasn’t going into shock, so at least the sword hadn’t nicked her artery. But now every step she took and every twist of her body would earn her another jolt of pain until she tended to her wounds properly.

She looked back to her opponent, flat on its belly and struggling to get up. It was futilely trying to get both legs up underneath it and failing, as if not understanding that one had been broken. It also tried to prop itself up with the Zweihander once or twice. The undead nestled the tip into the sand and brought the rest of the sword upright, its back curling at an awkward angle as it did so. It tried to pull the whole of its weight up at once -- which naturally caused the sword and knight to topple face first into the dirt.

Perhaps if she left it alone, it would end up driving the blade into its own chest.

She closed the distance with a few angry steps. No; she wouldn’t wait for the mindless creature to finish itself off. She would do it herself.

It was still on its belly clawing at the sand as she walked over to it. Standing by its side, she drove her sword straight through its back with a horrible crunch, metal and bone and flesh all ran through on her sword. She pulled it out, and the undead monster rolled onto its back, staring up at her. She stepped over it, one leg on either side of its body, and drove her sword into it again. This time it made a loud wheezing noise as she carved another rent into its armor and the lungs beneath. She stabbed her sword into its chest again and again and again. And every time; crunch, crunch, crunch.

She completely dissociated from the moment, allowing her hands to do the tiring, mechanical work. Her mind, almost at random, went far back to one of the better days of her childhood.

_Her father was giving her a lecture about the design of arms and armor, when she had asked why knights of Catarina looked so much like onions. He had chuckled, always warm, always friendly, lifted her up onto his knee, and spoke._

_“All metal armor is curved in one way or another, to lessen the force or even redirect blows! Shields -- especially noticeable on circular ones -- helmets, pauldrons, it’s very clear to see. Even the metal studs on leather armor are spherical for this purpose! Flat metal is easy to batter and weaken;_ rounded _metal is more structurally sound.”_

Crunch, crunch.

_Her father had turned around for a moment, to fetch his massive Zweihander, bigger than she was. He had taken it out of its sheath and wielded it with one hand easily. It had shimmered in the sun, catching the light and almost seeming to glow._

_“When two men in armor fight with swords, all the hacking and slashing is mostly for show. You need an axe or hammer to properly peel an onion knight, and even then, one has to be very strong of arm indeed!” He had leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper, as if he were sharing a very important secret. “Some armor doesn’t cover the entire body very well. The elbows might be segmented, or the knees, or the armpits, so that the wearer can move more easily. Swinging your sword might make an opening, then, if your opponent is off balance, you might be able to strike them there.”_

Crunch. Crunch.

_“But when I was in the army, not every man had a full suit of onion armor, or even a sword. They had spears and arrows. Do you know what makes spears and arrows so special, my little Lin.”_

_She had bit her lip and frowned, deep in thought. “They’re… made of wood?”_

_“Ha! True enough, but not quite what I was getting at.”_

_She tried again. “Their tips are pointy!”_

_“Just so!” He had tapped her on the nose, and she had giggled._

Crunch. Crunch.

_Her father had taken his sword in two hands then, holding the hilt in the hand of the arm around her shoulder and the tip in the other. “Spears and arrows are pointy. That makes it easier for them to_ pierce _the armor, rather than slice through it.”_

_“_ Pierce _the armor,” she had repeated, tasting the word on her tongue and finding that it sounded very important._

_“Exactly. So even with swords, the swiping and swooshing and hacking and slashing, all the finesse of swordplay -- is to knock around your opponent in that heavy metal armor, and tire him out. And then the tip of your sword,” he said, before raising his hand upright and pressing the tip carefully into his soft, pink palm. Sieglinde had been frightened for a moment, until she realized that he wasn’t pressing it hard enough to break the skin or draw blood._

Crunch.

_“Pierces the armor.”_

Crunch.

_“That’s the key. All swordplay is done with the last, oh, half-meter or so of the blade. Against foes with lighter armor, hacking and slashing is_ quite _effective, but fighting a foe in plate requires a touch of precision. The more convex -- that’s a fancy word for_ curved outward _, little Lin -- the armor is, the harder it is to pierce.”_

Crunch.

_“Therefore! Despite the somewhat unflattering appearance so-called onion armor has, it’s certainly the roundest of any armor in any kingdom. You may rest assured, Lin: your father the onion knight is one of the safest men in the world!”_

Squelch.

She had driven her sword into her father’s throat that time, not having noticed the way her thrusts had climbed higher and higher. The gorget had given way easily under her massive Zweihander. She could feel where the blade ground uncomfortably against spine.

She -- pulled the sword out of the ground and the corpse, now well and truly riddled with wounds. Again, the blood was too thick and coagulated to come gushing out -- the only place it was visible was his throat, where the black ichor slowly blossomed forth. The surface tension held, and like a bubble the substance merely grew, ballooning larger and larger like some kind of terrible goiter, threatening to --

She was staring. Sieglinde whirled around, facing away from the corpse and towards the rim of the crater around the bonfire.

She was startled to see a figure in armor standing there, halberd loose in his hand. She gripped her Zweihander, ready for a fight.

...none came, at least right away. Who was --

Oh. It was him.

_That_ undead. Her father’s companion.

...oh.

\----------

The chosen undead had made his way to the bonfire, having defeated the enemies on the way there without much trouble, only having consumed a single estus. The sounds of sword fighting had tapered off a while ago, but still he persisted. He needed to see the aftermath for himself.

He hadn’t expected to see Sieglinde down here.

He had expected to see her standing by Siegmeyer’s corpse even less.

She was huffing and puffing, breath echoing in her armor, shoulders heaving with exhaustion. Emotional, physical, he couldn’t quite say. Siegmeyer had clearly required some effort to defeat, though; his armor was torn almost to scrap around his chest and knee. The black blood of the undead oozed slowly from his wounds, staining the sand black not in the way that water or even normal blood causes it to darken and clump together, but in the way a paintbrush stains a canvas. One stroke at a time: slowly.

He noticed -- in a very detached way -- that Siegmeyer’s body hadn’t vanished the way so many other Hollows did when they died, nor did his soul rise up with the promise of an item. He wondered if that’s what happened to undead killed by a living human, not affected by the curse.

Selfishly, he prayed for a moment that it also meant that Siegmeyer wouldn’t be coming back.

Then he realized that _Siegmeyer had Hollowed and been killed by his daughter_ , and the horrible reality of the situation came crashing down.

He dropped his black knight halberd to the ground, where it tumbled down alongside him as he made his way to Sieglinde. She was still wielding her Zweihänder without her shield, and he wasn’t quite sure it would be a good idea to touch her or otherwise make much noise. He reached a hand out to her, palm up.

“My father… all Hollow now… has been subdued.” She scoffed at her own words. 

_Subdued_. As if it were that simple. As if Siegmeyer were an animal on the loose. As if she had restrained him and put him in prison, instead of killing him. Not for the first time, he remembered, thinking back to their brief conversation at Firelink shrine. She had done this before, whatever that entailed. But of course, Siegmeyer could only Hollow once. If they had fought before, he had at least been himself, and not… the growling, mindless shell that all undead turned into.

Sigelinde cleared her throat. “He will cause no more trouble. It's finally over…” She slammed her sword into its sheath with fierce conviction. “I will return to Catarina.” 

She turned to him and fumbled in her knapsack. “You assisted us both greatly. I can hardly return the favour, but please accept this. It's of no use to me now.”

Her voice broke as she shoved the slab of titanite into his chest. He… almost didn’t want to take it, wanted to press it back into her hands and offer her some form of comfort.

He took the titanite. He hoped it was more helpful to her than his words would have been.

She turned away, abrupt and jerky, dropping to her knees by Siegmeyer’s side. He saw her rummaging through his knapsack, laying out some of the items in there on the sand. 

Scrolls of very minor spells, of little if any use. 

His estus, of course, still full; Sieglinde had either killed him too quickly and efficiently to have been able to drink from it without her punishing him for it, or maybe, _maybe_ , there was some small part of him still looking out for his daughter, even as he tried to kill her and steal her soul. 

Clumps of purple and green moss. 

Arrows, some that he recognized as being from the silver knights in Anor Londo, and others that were less recognizable from behind Sieglinde’s shoulder.

A handful of rings. 

Sieglinde became much more discerning when she pulled those out. She brought them all (dozens, of varying sizes) close to her face for careful inspection. Some were old, one or two were larger with a bright gem sunk into them. Many were incredibly small, as if made for a doll or a fairy, or some other tiny being. A token of friendship both less useful and more personal than a soapstone or other summoning item might have been (Siegmeyer had no such items, he noticed, apparently determined to do things himself).

Sieglinde had been going through the rings one by one and dropping them on the ground after they failed whatever she was inspecting them for, before suddenly she cast them all across the sand. She took a moment to breathe, then made to take off one of Siegmeyer’s gauntlets, fingers still loose around his sword.

The chosen undead stepped forward to stop her, but she got her father’s armor off before he was even in reach. She recoiled in disgust upon seeing Siegmeyer’s flesh (he would have spared her that if he could have. Another failure).

His skin was desiccated and rotting, little more than bone and veins thick with blood that had stopped and thickened with no heart to pump it through the body. The pus that wept from open sore clung to the metal like truly disgusting glue, and the smell…! He was immune to it now, more or less, having killed and been killed enough to have accepted the stench of undeath as a part of life, save on rare occasions when cleanliness was possible or required, to enjoy a brief taste of humanity. It still sat badly on this tongue and in his nose. He couldn’t imagine how rancid it was for Sieglinde.

She lifted a hand over some of the ventilation for her helmet, gagging even so. She pinched one of his fingers -- perhaps finding the ring that wasn’t with the others in his pouch. She tried to pull it off, to no avail, instead twisting it in an effort to wrench it off his swollen knuckles and sticky flesh.

She did manage to get the ring off, with an awful sound that could only be described as a slimy pop, and cradled it reverently in both hands. He could see now that it wasn’t on Siegmeyer’s corpse that it was beautiful. It looked heavy; a thick band of engraved metal wrapped around a large rectangular rock. Stoneplate, he recognized, but of many colors woven together. It was a beautiful mosaic of red, blue, and yellow, all the more remarkable against the white and black of the armor and gore. It was a gorgeous ring.

Sieglinde let out a single wretched sog, then stopped, continuing to shake in silence.

“He is gone,” he started, needing to say _something_ , anything, before being interrupted by a wet cough that had nested in his throat. “He is gone. And we cast away moan, please ha’ mercy on his soul.” He had another coughing fit, but mercifully he kept his voice from wavering. “And of all souls, I pray ye gods.”

“...amen.” Sieglinde’s hands were clasped around each other and the ring. Her head was bowed, but she lifted it up to look at him after finishing the prayer.

“Privileged. To know him. And you.” Siegmeyer was important to him. He couldn’t even begin to imagine all the things he to Sieglinde, but he could offer his thoughts easily and she needed something to ease his soul. And hers while she still lived, it seemed.

Sieglinde was still for a moment. “Thank you,” she breathed, almost totally overshadowed by the noise of the waves. She looked down at her father’s body, then at the blazing bonfire. She spoke with rigid purpose in her voice, “I can’t bury him, but he deserves something.”

He laid a hand gently on her shoulder, then pointed at the waves. Putting Siegmeyer’s corpse in the flames would be -- bad. He wasn’t sure, but he felt strongly that it wouldn’t end well, for him, for her, certainly for Siegmeyer.

Sieglinde -- well, she made a noise somewhere between hissing and spitting, but she moved to grab his shoulders without any objection. The chosen undead went to grab his feet, and the two of them lifted Siegmeyer up without any awkward difficulty.

Plenty else about it was awkward and difficult, though.

The two of them steadily waded out into the lake, careful to keep their footing steady. They were thigh-deep with just a few steps. The lake plunged from a gradual sandy slope to an endless depth, black and apparently bottomless. He had killed a hydra, once. Perhaps its children had mourned it too, and were waiting down below, where no light or men in armor could pierce the dark.

Well. One man would pierce it, at least.

Wordlessly, he and Sieglinde heaved Siegmeyer’s body. They tried to be as reverent as possible, but there is no dignified way to sling a body into a lake. Siegmeyer made a loud splash before his heavy armor and shield, still strapped to his back, pulled him down into the lake. He vanished in seconds, and then was gone.

Sieglinde turned around and marched back to shore. The chosen undead waited for a moment, just a moment, for… something. A last silent goodbye, that did him no good. The last conversation he had had with Siegmeyer had been hateful, and he would always regret it.

He went back to shore, too. Sieglinde was dressing her one singular wound, a shallow gash on the inside of her leg. She was fussing with a bandage, some rubbing liquid, cleaning out the wound and washing away the bright red blood as she wrapped it up.

Her voice was tight when she spoke. “My father’s items are here. I certainly don’t need them, but… if you…” He shook his head before she finished. “Alright then. Suit yourself. I’ll be going home, of course. To Catarina. There’s nothing left for me here.”

He nodded and knelt by the bonfire. It wasn’t in the same way that she meant it, but there also wasn’t much for him here anymore. Ash Lake was meant to be peaceful; it no longer was. He wouldn’t be coming back here until he had finally killed Nito, and likely a few more dragonkin besides.

“I trust you won’t mind my saying so,” Sieglinde said as he focused on a destination and began to travel there with the Lord Vessel, “but your country is a fucking dogshit place.”

“Not my country,” he answered, a little less hoarse than he had been earlier, but still ragged and raw. “Just the place where I died.”

He began to shimmer and dissolve into yellow mist, and then he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. 5 chapters. three character PoVs. 33 pages and over 13k words. Siegmeyer died two whole times. i started going to therapy. COVID is STILL going on wtf!!!
> 
> It only took four months and it wasn't even terribly long, but WOW did it FEEL a whole lot longer. probably on account of my having rewritten the thing a few times, and having carried this in my heart since my first playthrough of Dark Souls.
> 
> If you made it this far... thank you for reading. this isn't quite what i usually post, and it was a little sporadic in updating, but i'm very, very proud of it. if you've commented on this fic -- holy shit?? i owe you, like, a first-born child, or possibly a number of fresh-baked pastries.
> 
> special thank you to NatashaBrown for fanart (give her some love! -- https://twitter.com/undeadforhire/status/1316790785375838208), which is both very good and melted my brain conceptually. the words "Illustration for @HatSage7's incredible Sieglinde fic" is the equivalent of an optical illusion, i REALLY can't process it... thank you.
> 
> this fic wasn't even that long and it still took a LOT out of me. i still have plans to make Dark Souls fic -- i've been working on and off on a Priscilla fic following her growing up in Anor Londo that i LOVE, and would love to share, but it's been a little less than a year since i've started writing and only the Prologue and the final chapter are even close to finished... it could be a while. if you have one-shots or characters you'd like to see, please, by ALL means -- drop a comment or DM [GBeanson #5324 on Discord]. i'd love to hear ideas or even more constructive criticism that might be too long for AO3 comments.
> 
> again, thank you for reading to the end. be excellent to each other


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